


July 11th, 1804

by publius_ham



Series: Memoirs [3]
Category: American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: F/M, I'm very sorry for this, M/M, The Duel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 19:45:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15250668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/publius_ham/pseuds/publius_ham
Summary: I cocked the gun a few times in the air, trying to examine it in a different way. Had George Eacker stood this way, arm raised, eyes fixed on my boy, before aiming to fire? Had he intended to hit him? Had he rowed across the river knowing he would kill a nineteen-year-old prodigy, leaving the world with a heartbroken mother and a ghost of a father?I looked at Burr again.His eyes were already on me.





	July 11th, 1804

_ Grateful Posterity; _

 

_ The CORPORATION of TRINITY CHURCH Has created this _

_ In Testimony of their Respect  _

_ for _

_ The PATRIOT of incorruptible INTEGRITY _

_ The SOLDIER of approved VALOUR _

_ The STATESMAN of consummate WISDOM _

_ Whose TALENTS and VIRTUES will be admired _

_ long after this MARBLE shall have mouldered into _

_ DUST _

  
  
  


The first thing I remember is sitting in a small boat, my good friend Nathaniel Pendleton and Dr. David Hosack were there too, cramped up beside me. We were silent, as if we all were scared to arrive at our destination and thought it best not to speak at all. 

A small wooden box was seated on my lap. I knew this to hold the two guns owned by my sister-in-law’s husband, John Church. I was holding it as if cradling a newborn babe, knowing these things might save my life today or take it.

Only when we reached the other side of the river did I stop staring at the box, and I reluctantly dragged by gaze upwards to look at the dueling ground of New Jersey, better known as Weehawken, just below the towering cliffs of the Palisades. I had never been there before, but I knew of it. 

I took a sharp breath. I would not dwell on Philip. 

There simply was no such luxury.

Not today.

The almost golden colour of the sunset painted the sky. It must have been nearing 7 am. I wasn’t sure.

Burr, with his pitch black hair and his shining white face and his trademark sneer, was already pacing the ground. Everything felt more heightened than normal, as if my senses knew there was something special about this moment, as if it knew how much time I had left. I noticed the icy air in my lungs and the white puffs of clouds leaving me, the foul smell of the city that was simply so  _ New York,  _ the itching and heavy clothing hugging me uncomfortably. 

He nodded solemnly when he noticed me arriving, a weird look in his eyes. William P. van Ness and another man I didn’t recognise were standing beside him. They didn’t particularly acknowledge me; not that I could blame them. 

“Colonel Hamilton,” Burr said.

For a second I couldn’t believe his nerve. He taunted with my title - it was almost as if he had slapped me right in the face. “Major General,” I corrected him, though he knew my station perfectly well. He did it on purpose to rile me up. Normally he’d laugh and tell me to cool it down, to go to my wife. That I took everything he said too seriously.

This time he just smiled - nay,  _ grimaced  _ in return. 

We drew lots, I won, and I chose the spot looking into the sun, partly because I intended to miss anyway. Mostly because in the distance I could see the skyline of my New York city. And if something  _ were  _ to happen, I at least looked at something I could be proud of. 

Our seconds went forward but Burr didn’t back down - neither did I. I had nothing; my career was in shatters, I had no fortune, no parents, my oldest child had died,  _ Laurens…  _ All I had left was my honour, and I was not going to have the vice President Burr take that away from me. 

The doctor standing on the side was the same man who had tended to my son in his last moments. He grimaced when he spotted me. I looked away. 

My hands were shaking as I loaded the gun with powder. Was this the gun Philip had used? Or did Burr take that one, and I held the one who had killed my son? 

There were little engravings on the side. I tried to make them out in the dark, but it was impossible to make out at this hour. I looked up to gaze at Burr instead, my glasses digging into my cheeks uncomfortably as I tried to smile at him. 

I cocked the gun a few times in the air, trying to examine it in a different way. Had George Eacker stood this way, arm raised, eyes fixed on  _ my  _ boy, before aiming to fire? Had he intended to hit him? Had he rowed across the river knowing he would kill a nineteen-year-old prodigy, leaving the world with a heartbroken mother and a ghost of a father? 

I looked at Burr again. 

His eyes were already on me.

Aaron Burr had always been the kind of person to stare at people in such a way it made you want to either duck and hide, or just question your entire existence. He looked at people as a predator looked at its prey, calculating, trying to figure out when the right timing was to jump in and strike. 

Most people got nervous with his eyes on them.

I, however, felt a sense of calm fill me. This man was  _ vice president Aaron Burr _ , the man who publicly declared his abhorrence for dueling and unnecessary violence. He wasn’t going to shoot me. It would not make  _ sense _ . Killing me would kill any of his political aspirations - and by Providence, did everyone know he had them and was willing to do everything to get what he wanted - and most of all, he was my friend. Or, well. 

He used to be. 

So when he raised his gun I wasn’t scared - after all, I’d raised mine, and I didn’t intend to shoot. They counted to ten, and before I could tip down my pistol to the ground or even draw a breath he had fired his shot. 

Instantly - no life shooting before my eyes or even the time for the confusion and anger to hit me - an excruciating pain erupted in my abdomen, and I fell down. I was clutching the gun. It might have fired when the spasm had taken over my body, I do not know. I just had time to tell the doctor that my wound was a mortal one - I knew this to be the end - before passing out. 

When I came to I was being carried to the boat. My clothes were ripped apart - the blood oozing down my side. Burr was nowhere in sight. 

I attempted to turn my face to look at Dr. Hosack when we were rowing back to the New York coast, he was holding me tight to his side. Was he scared I might topple over the side and drown? “Take care of that pistol,” I muttered, tightening my grip on the handle, “it is undischarged, and still cocked; it may go off and do harm.” Breathing hurt. Everything seemed off. “Pendleton knows that I did not intend to fire at him.” 

Pendleton quickly spoke, as if to stop me, as if terrified I might expire in the middle of my sentence. “Yes,” he said, “I have already made Dr. Hosack acquainted with your determination as to that.”

I sighed, relaxing. Good. They knew of my intentions - which meant the world would know, too. Burr might have shot me fatally, but I would not leave this world a villain. I had closed my eyes, but I lingered on a little longer, desperate to keep clinging to the weak link I had with the conscious world. I asked a few times if my friends they could feel my pulse - just to make sure I was still alive. I could not feel the lower side of my body anymore, and I simply told my friends that I certainly entertained no hopes that I should live much longer - all I longed for was to be home, to be with Betsey, my kids. 

To see them once more.

When the shore came within sight I turned to Dr Hosack again, grabbing his coat. I hoped he didn’t mind. “Let Mrs Hamilton be immediately sent for,” I quickly said, the darkness tilting around the edges of my mind. “Let the event be gradually broken to her,” I almost begged, “but give her hopes.” 

Dr Hosack replied in the affirmative, and I sighed. “I have no ill will against colonel Burr,” I muttered after a while of silence. The waves were rocking the boat softly. It was almost comforting. “I met him with a fixed resolution to do him no harm. I forgive all that happened.”

And I did. Whatever happened now, it was my fault for getting to that ground. Burr was my friend - it may have all been an accident. 

The trip back seemed so much quicker - I think I passed out again, my friend took my gun away from me - and before I knew it I was being carried inside the house of William Bayard. The Grange would be too far away. With a startling shock I realised that,  _ oh _ . I would never see my own house again. 

I had always thought, wondered, how it would feel like to get shot. Mostly because of the war, of reading all the stories of dying gloriously in battle, of the Marquis not even noticing a bullet in his leg during the fight, and god. Laurens. Legend said he was shot in his back. Did he have time to contemplate on life, as I was doing right now? Or did it all just go black? 

And. Oh.  _ Philip.  _ He must’ve been so scared. 

They pulled me and carried me up to the little bed. The fact that this was to be the last place I’d ever draw breath didn’t scare me. I don’t know why.

The bullet wound hurt more than I thought. Maybe it had fractured my liver - it  _ definitely  _ had hit my ribs, for breathing in and out got harder by the minute. It felt like I was drowning and couldn’t find the strength to push by body up to get to safety. My friend, Dr. Hosack, was telling me about the place he thought the bullet was, I didn’t listen. I’d always been fascinated by medicine, and listened eagerly to every doctor I knew. Now my brain just zoned out, as if protecting me from the information, as if not knowing where the bullet was would save my life. 

After a while - minutes, hours, days, I don’t know - Elizabeth enters the room.

She’d been crying. 

I wondered who’s told her. Had it been Dr Hosack? I wondered what she said. Did she grow hysterical? Curse my existence? Or did she just sit there, blinking at whomever told her the news, thinking that fate was playing some cruel joke on her? 

Part of me hoped she hated me.

“Alex _ ander _ ,” she cried, rushing to my side. 

“Hey,” I said, softly. 

She almost smiled at me, her eyes teary and the grin ripping apart at the edges. She didn’t ask me what happened - maybe somebody already told her. She gripped my hand, so tightly it almost hurt, and sat down next to me on the bed. Then, before she could even open her mouth to say anything, I started talking.

Mostly because I didn’t want to focus on the pain, nor the fact that the doctor wasn’t helping me - a clear sign that he knew I was a lost cause. But partly because, well, words had always been  _ my thing _ , and Providence be damned if I couldn’t use the last strength in my body to say everything I had never been able to say; everything I would never have time to say again.

I might leave this world today.

But I wasn’t going to leave it  _ quietly _ . 

In my youth I had written a letter describing the hurricane which had wrecked my entire world. I’d described the bodies floating in the water, the perpetual lightning cleaving through the sky, the wrecks of houses and trees flying through the air like meteors crashing down on earth. I had felt helpless then, as if staring down right in the eye of Tartarus, and unable to get my legs to listen to me and  _ run.  _ The horror had been all around me, suffocating, as if Atlas had simply abandoned his post and the sky was coming down to crush us all to oblivion. 

It had scared me. 

The idea of dying pointlessly by the power of God’s wrath seemed unfair - as if, somehow, despite all my hard work to get over the hardships I’d faced in the years of my youth, I had still done something to piss him off and was the culprit of all this pain he was unleashing on the earth.

This felt worse.

This time I knew I had caused this pain.

This was a justified reckoning of God. 

I had no anger to channel, no resentment to focus on and use all the pain and suffering to work myself up and out. All I had was me, lying on that little bed, trying to say as much as I wanted to say to my wife, words falling away from me while I knew I couldn’t say the thing I needed to tell her - _ I’m sorry, I am so sorry. _

Mid-rant I was interrupted by bishop Benjamin Moore. 

“Major General Hamilton,” the bishop said, solemnly, as he entered the death chamber. Elizabeth looked up, startled, and immediately got to her feet to greet him - always the proper host, no matter the dire circumstances. “Madam,” he said then, this time with a soft smile. My own fault, I suppose, for not attending church as often as my wife did. 

“Bishop Moore,” she said, warmly, clasping his hand inside her own. She pulled him to my bed, frantic in her movements. She almost wanted this more than I did. “Please, you know of my husband’s request -”

“Mrs. Hamilton -”

“- I have always attended your services regularly, I have yet to miss a Sunday’s mass -”

“Mrs. Hamilton. I have already informed you of my views on the matter-”

“This is not just a futile and simple  _ request _ , Mr Moore.” I tried not to smile at the vehement tone of her voice; nor the fact that the bishop seemed to back up a little. Elizabeth could be terrifying if she wanted to be. “This is my demand! It is not a… a..” She lifted her hands up, they were balled. For a brief second I thought she was going to fight him.  “It is my husband’s  _ death wish _ !”

Before the bishop could open his mouth I cleared my throat.

They both whipped their heads around to look at me. 

“Please,” I croaked, my voice feeling as if I hadn’t used it in years - even though I’d been talking non-stop for hours on end. “My parents had not married in the eye of the Lord. But -”

“I sincerely apologise, Mr Hamilton.” The bishop neared my bed, looking almost pathetic with old age. “I simply cannot grant you your request. Not because of your baseborn nature,” he quickly added when he saw I was about to open my mouth, raising his hand to stop my infamous tirade, “but for two simple objections. The first being the state you were injured in; I hate to remind you that a duel is a  _ mortal sin,  _ sir.”

I grimaced. 

“The second objection, General, is that though you have unquestionably been a sincere Christian in your later years, you are not Episcopalian. Your wife might be a true devotee, but that does not guarantee your own salvation.” He nodded to me, nodded to Elizabeth - who stared at him, stunned - and added, as if in afterthought; “I am truly sorry for what happened. My sympathies are with you.”

Elizabeth didn’t reply. Maybe she was too shocked.

After a silence he nodded again, waved his hand in my direction, and took off without another word.

For a few moments we both were stock-still; Elizabeth fuming on her feet and tears in her eyes, I frozen on the little bed - until she suddenly jumped towards me and grabbed my shoulders in a fearsome rage. “I will  _ make  _ him grant you your request,” she seethed, petting my hair, stroking my cheek, my lips, my tears, in a very contrasting soft and loving way. “You will be given access to our Lord’s divine realm, Alexander. I swear it.”

“Betsey -”

She kissed me on my forehead, almost furiously, and then she was gone from the room, too.

Being alone had never felt so suffocating. 

If I expired now, who would know? My last word would have been my wife’s name - not a bad last word, now that I think of it - but I was just selfish enough to wish for it not to have been that. I wanted to say something memorable, something people would hear and think,  _ yes,  _ though Hamilton might not have died gloriously for his country (like I oh-so wished to do) he did leave us with  _ something _ . I at least -

“Hamilton,” suddenly came a voice, and I whipped my head around to look at the person in the doorway. Too fast. The world spun around the edges. 

“Careful,  _ mon chèr _ ,” the voice was eerily familiar, and before I knew it, she’d joined my side and had clasped my cold, clammy hand in hers, kissing it. Her lips seemed to be burning. “ _ Je suis là.” _

“ _ Ange _ ,” I sighed, relaxing against the bed. My sister. When had she gotten here? Had Elizabeth summoned her? She would need the strength. I tipped my head to the side - this time, very slowly - to look at her. Her cheeks were wet and her eyes shining, but she had never looked more beautiful. 

I hoped she hated me, too.

“Oh, Alexander,” she said after a while, having examined my whole being, “what have you done?”

I couldn’t answer. The shame was almost suffocating.

She still had not let go of my hand.

Then Elizabeth entered, dragging the bishop behind her. I don’t know how long she’d been gone. It might have been minutes, or hours, or days. “Please,” she said promptly, almost pushing the bishop in my direction. “Hear him out.”

I don’t know what she did. Nor how she convinced the bishop of New York to grant me another visit. He nodded at Angelica Church at my side, his eyes fuming but his sneer settling for resentment, and he clasped my other free hand in his own. 

“General Hamilton,” he said, “As I already told your wife, I cannot -”

“My dear sir,” I interrupted him, pulling my hand away from him. I tried to draw strength from my fear.  _ He would not baptize me.  _ It was a startling realisation, and a terrifying one - without it I would not be allowed into ‘ _ the god’s realm _ ’, as Elizabeth had so eloquently put it. The least I could do, however, was convince him, in the manner how I always convinced everyone, of giving me the last bit of dignity and granting me Holy Communion. The least that could do was calm Elizabeth. “You perceive my unfortunate situation, and no doubt have been made acquainted with the circumstances which led to it.” He nodded. As permission, I went on, “It is my desire to receive the communion at your hands. I hope you will not conceive there is any impropriety in my request.” Before he could interrupt, I continued. “It was for some time past been the wish of my heart, and it was intention to take an early opportunity of uniting myself to the church, by the reception of that holy ordinance.”

For a second or two he looked too stumped to react. 

He might have heard of my reputation. 

Seeing it in real life might have been something quite different.

Or he simply had not expected a dying man to be more eloquent than he.

“Mr Hamilton,” he finally asked, after having recovered from his short shock, “Should it please God to restore your health, sir, will you never be again engaged in a similar transaction?” 

I wanted to laugh.  _ Duel again?  _ My wife would kill me.

“And will you employ all your influence in society to discountenance this barbarous custom?”

_ If only to prevent a second Philip. _

“That, sir,” I told him, trying to smile, “is my deliberate intention.”

He nodded.

He was not being merciful - he knew that, without me having been baptized, this would be an entire useless affair. An empty pretense of the god’s mercy and good will. Yet he and I both knew why this was necessary, why to fake pleasantries, why to shake hands and smile while knowing we both hated each other deeply in that moment - to save my poor wife’s heart. 

The bishop wasn’t a good actor. 

He looked far too satisfied with himself.

Luckily for me, however, Elizabeth was crying too hard to notice. She quickly run from the room to get the supplies needed, bishop Moore standing silently at my side, watching me. We didn’t say a word until she returned, handing him everything. 

“Repeat after me, Mr Hamilton,” the bishop said, in a loud, commanding voice, handing me a piece of bread. 

I had no choice but to obey him. 

“ _ Thank you, Father _ ,” I repeated softly, trying to ignore Betsey’s wide smile, “ _ for the gift of Your Son. By the stripes that fell on His back - _ ”

I did everything he asked. I spoke, I ate the bread, I drank the wine from the cup he offered; all without protesting even one word. If Burr would see me he’d laugh. Laurens would maybe even fight the bishop if he had been here, alive; he was not as religious as Elizabeth and he would have surely seen this not as the supposed mercy of a man of god, but as an insult, as a last stab in the back of a man he had never liked before seeing me dragged down to Hell.

Afterwards, after the damned man left the room, Elizabeth joined my side, facing me and her sister. She looked strangely happy, and I would have be slightly offended, had it not been for the tremble in her voice and the love I knew she felt for me. 

“Your children,” Elizabeth muttered after a while, interrupting me. I had not realized I’d started ranting again. “They are out in the hallway. They wish to -” her voice broke off.

I knew what she wanted to say. 

What she couldn’t.

_ Say goodbye. _

“Shall I call for them?” Angelica asked, softly.

Elizabeth nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. 

When her sister rose and left the room, Elizabeth was suddenly closer to me, cradling my head, kissing me hard on the lips. She tasted like salt and fury - and I wished for nothing in the world than to comfort her, to hug her and tell her all would be okay. 

It would be a lie.

She leaned back, her dark eyes shining, searching my face frantically, as if she was trying to memorise it. Maybe she was. She didn’t tell me she loved me - she didn’t need to. 

“Betsey,” I said. “I -”

She sobbed.

“I’m..” I could not say it. The words that would mean the  _ most,  _ that needed to be said the most, felt like lead at the edge of my throat, stuck deep inside just like the bullet was. 

She kissed me again. 

Maybe she knew.

Then Angelica entered again, this time in tow with my children.

The world started to turn blurry. I liked to blame it on my end nearing, but I knew I had finally succumbed to the emotions - seeing my kids, six of them lined up in front of me, staring at me with their big curious eyes was enough to bring me over the edge and cry.

“ _ Papá _ !” William yelled out, and he came running towards me. 

Elizabeth stopped him before he could reach me, shaking her head at him. “No, darling. He’s too weak to -”

“Don’t fret, Betsey.” I gave William a watery smile - dear Lord, he was turning only  _ seven  _ in the next month, have mercy on my soul - and opened my arms. “Be careful with your father though, Will. I might look awfully big and strong -”

Elizabeth let out a sob; it might have been a laugh. 

“- but looks may be deceiving.” 

William jumped on the bed, and he promptly put his arms around me. I did not care that he was touching the wound, nor that pains were shooting up and down my body. This was my  _ son.  _

I hugged him back. Kissed the top of his head - a mop of dark red, unruly curls. He’d look like me one day. He did have my eyes. Maybe, if the god were merciful, and Elizabeth would see our children grow old and strong and gray, she’d be marvelled one day, thinking it was me standing there in the doorway rather than William. 

I hoped she could forgive him for that.

My other dearests came near, little Philip clutching his aunt’s hair and gurgling nonsense. My heart clenched at the look of them - Will still would not let go, and I ignored my already torn shirt getting wetter by his tears - and I took a deep, long breath. He smelled like vanilla, like Betsey, like home.

I gazed at James, John - Angie wasn’t here. It had been the right thing to do, but I couldn’t help but choke at the thought of never seeing her again. Alex Jr was holding hands with Liza - he had always been protective of her. I wanted to tell him to do that always, to promise me to look after his little sister, to make sure that she would never marry someone unworthy of her; someone like  _ me _ . I wanted to tell them how much I loved them, how much everything in my heart was tearing up and falling apart because I was leaving them. 

I hadn’t minded going to the duel. 

Now?

_ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. _

I wanted to demand them to look after their mother. I’d weep and beg, I’d get on my knees and raise my bloodied hands at the sky. I had vowed to myself that I would not follow the path of my father before me, but was this not worse? Did I not leave even younger children in my wake? 

“ _ Je suis tellement désolé.”  _ I muttered finally, loosening my grip on William. He fled to his mother - she was crying, too. She would not be able to understand my French, but my boys would know. And I needed to say something. “ _ Promets-moi _ .  _ Prenez soin de votre mamá pour moi. Prenez soin de mon  _ _ cœur! _ ” 

Before I could see any of them nodding, or agreeing in any way, I closed my eyes.

The simple sight of them - the knowledge what I would be leaving behind without having the strength to save any of them from the cruelty of the world - was simply too much.

I didn’t need to tell Elizabeth. 

When she came to grab my hand again I opened my eyes. They were gone. 

The energy was draining from my body, as a contrast to the blood finally slowing. Maybe I’d drained out, maybe there would be nothing left. Had I whitened? Could my wife see the life ebbing away from me?

I couldn’t fight it forever.

So when Angelica joined us again - this time, alone - I started talking again. I couldn’t stand the silence around me and the noise in my head, so I did what I always did. I turned it around. I talked and talked and talked, about my work, about the war, about everything I could think of, the words falling away from me until my head was nothing but blank space.

Angelica joined in now and again, sparring. Keeping me grounded. 

She told me how she once punched President Jefferson - I didn’t believe her, but it did bring out a laugh in me. Elizabeth had sobbed then, as if knowing it would be the last time she’d hear it. 

She had always loved my laugh.

The pain started to fade away.

“In the name of God, amen,” I whispered, seeing my children enter the room again. The end was nearing and everyone knew it. Elizabeth was at my side. I was crying, I think.  “If it please God to spare my life, I may look for a considerable surplus out of my present property… Yet if he should speedily call me to the eternal world,” I laughed. It sounded empty. Hollowed out. Terrified. “A forced sale, as is usual, may possibly render it insufficient to satisfy my debts. I pray God that something may remain for the maintenance and education of my dear wife -” Elizabeth clenched my hand so tight the bones should have been torn into pieces. I wanted it to. “- and children.” 

“They will be perfectly fine, Alexander.” Angelica’s voice was barely louder than wind blowing through trees. “I promise.” 

More people entered the room - my doctor, my friends. Even the bishop. He might have had some humanity left in him, after all.

I had not stopped prattling on. Nobody stopped my verbal waterfall.

“Betsey, best of wives,” I finally muttered, my voice weak and so, so tired. I don’t know how long I had been giving a speech - minutes, hours, days? “Remember you are a Christian.” It seemed important to remind her. She needed to stay here. She needed to be strong, to look after our children. “I -”

“Go, Alexander,” Angelica said softly, kissing my temple. Whispered in my ear. “I’ll look after our angel.”

I fell back against the bed. 

I was so, so tired.

If I just rested for  _ one  _ second, closing my eyes -

Maybe I’d see my Laurens again.

A sigh.

Someone said my name.

Everything went dark.

  
  



End file.
